


Serpent, twining

by Aoftheis



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Yut-Lung wants but he doesn't get what he wants, because Blanca is a good man, not one-sided so much as unconsummated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 14:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoftheis/pseuds/Aoftheis
Summary: Blanca looks — he doesn't touch. In the moonlight, in this breathless moment, Yut-Lung doesn't understand, but one day he will.





	Serpent, twining

**Author's Note:**

> I came to this pairing with NC-17 intentions, because, well, though there are ISSUES APLENTY regarding consent/power/age -- I still wanted to write what I see on the screen, and this is what I see, in how Yut-Lung looks at Blanca.
> 
> I tried to write it. It didn't feel right.
> 
> This is what came out instead.
> 
> (If you came here looking for the NC-17 version of this scenario, you can't do better than Mazarin221b's [Melt You Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931439), which is kinda what gave me this idea in the first place.)

Blanca looks at him, and he doesn't understand it.

Men have looked at Yut-Lung for as long as he can remember: at the slope of his neck, at the curve of his mouth. The kind of look that is like a touch. It's a curse he's come to rely on, a small but certain advantage. 

Blanca looks. He doesn't pretend not to. But the way he looks -- at Yut-Lung's face, into his eyes, lingering, thoughtful, considering -- what _is_ that, precisely?

And he never touches, either. Gentlemanly, gracious, a bit amused, Blanca keeps his distance, and Yut-Lung can't stand it anymore.

*

And so he's here --

\-- after spilling his champagne on the carpet, after spilling all the ugly, sordid secrets of his past and running blindly from the room -- he's here, in the middle of the night, crawling into Blanca's bed, because why _not_.

Because Blanca knows, now, so it's not like Yut-Lung has anything left to hide, any dignity left to hide behind; why shouldn't he try to get what he wants, for once?

Blanca must know he's here. Noticed, no doubt, the moment the door opened. Probably before, with Yut-Lung's steps in the hallway. But, for some reason, he hasn't done anything about it, has let Yut-Lung lock the door behind him -- cross the room -- sink into the bed -- straddle his hips.

"Master Yut-Lung."

The body underneath him surges as Blanca sits up. His eyes are open and calm.

Yut-Lung doesn't say anything. He knows the picture he makes, in the moonlight; he knows how to paint a scene -- scarlet silk robe sliding off one bare shoulder, skin translucently pale, his hair tied up messily for sleep, tendrils framing his face.

"What are you doing?"

He's so close that he can feel the vibration deep in Blanca's chest as the man speaks, voice low and composed, as it always is. No tremble, no hitch. He can feel the shape of Blanca's body underneath him, solid muscle, radiating warmth, and he doesn't think he's ever wanted anything as much as he wants in this moment.

Maybe he's never even wanted, before this.

"I think you know what I'm doing," Yut-Lung says, voice full of honey.

Blanca puts one broad hand on Yut-Lung's bare chest, the other on his hip, and pushes, gentle but firm, shifting Yut-Lung off his lap and onto the bed.

"You should go," Blanca says, and Yut-Lung feels the words like a knife.

"This isn't what you really want," Blanca says.

"Don't tell me what I _want_ ," Yut-Lung spits, and he hates it, the way that his voice always twists out of his grip and rises into hysteria. The expensive silks, the paint on his eyes and lips, the hours spent coiling and braiding his hair -- what's the point, when this flimsy surface cracks so easily?

He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels the pad of Blanca's thumb against his eyelashes. He feels foolish, and angry, and -- worst of all -- _young_.

Blanca says, voice warm, "Yut-Lung."

"I get it," Yut-Lung snaps, cheeks burning. "You're a good man. You respect me. You could _never_." He turns to rise from the bed.

As he gets up, he feels a sharp tug. He looks down to where Blanca's hand is fisted in his hair: not pulling, but not letting go.

"I'm not a good man," Blanca says.

Yut-Lung thinks for a moment that this is surrender, that he's won -- but then he sees the look on Blanca's face, soft and tender and sad. Blanca drops his hand.

And of course, isn't this how things always go? He's been forced into so many beds, for power or for money or upon his brother's whim, nights that he thinks of with a sick blankness or not at all. And now, the first time he actually wants it, he can't have it.

"Go back to sleep," Blanca says, and Yut-Lung begins to shake his head no but even as he does, he knows he'll obey, because it's _that_ voice, rich and commanding, the voice he imagines when he's alone at night, a hand between his legs -- the voice that tells him to lie still, to get on his knees, to open his mouth.

He'll obey that voice.

"But before you go, will you do one thing for me?"

Yut-Lung just nods. It is not possible, in this moment, to say no, not that he ever would.

"Let down your hair," Blanca says, his voice coiled low and tight.

Arousal races up Yut-Lung's spine. He can feel his body betray him, again, the flush on his cheeks spreading down his neck, his chest, a shameful heat pooling low in his stomach.

Blanca looks at him, and Yut-Lung feels like a small animal in the brush, trembling under the gaze of something feral, silent, waiting.

He'd tied up his hair, messily, before bed. Slowly, looking Blanca in the eye, he slips the ribbon from its loop and lets his hair cascade down over his shoulders. Hears Blanca's barely perceptible intake of breath.

Finally, Blanca murmurs, "Don't ever cut your hair. It gives you great power over men like me."

Everything is hazy and feverish and thrumming with champagne and confusion, and he hasn't been looked at, ever, the way that Blanca is looking at him now, and -- he's going to take it; he doesn't care. And anyway, he doesn't think Blanca would try to stop him, not now.

Yut-Lung leans forward and presses their lips together.

For a moment, nothing, and then warmth. Blanca's mouth is gentle, but his lips part as Yut-Lung licks into his mouth. It goes on for a minute -- Blanca lets it go on -- then Yut-Lung feels Blanca's hand cupping his jaw, drawing Yut-Lung's face away from his own.

There's space between them now, air to breathe, but Yut-Lung doesn't want to breathe.

He wants to stay here, in the softness in Blanca's eyes, in his stupid fantasy. Sometimes he dreams of realities where he isn't a Lee, and he isn't sixteen, and there's no such thing as Banana Fish or Ash Lynx, where he and Blanca are just two bodies in a bed together and there's no world outside. In these dreams, Blanca presses him down into the sheets and his hands tangle in Yut-Lung's hair, pulling, until he arches his back and gasps. In these dreams it's always warm.

"So," Yut-Lung says, because he needs to break this moment now, before he can't: "How do I compare?" He makes it teasing, coquettish, voice fluttering over the syllables.

"Compare?"

"To him," Yut-Lung says, voice twisting. "To Ash."

Blanca sighs. It sounds tired. "I wouldn't know."

"What, you mean you've never --"

"No. Of course not."

 _Of course not._ Good. He's glad. Blanca's never touched Ash. Blanca had him, and not Ash, only _him_ , and that means -- something.

(It means _something_ , he'll think the next day, as the door closes behind Blanca one final time and Yut-Lung stands there alone in the empty room, curtains fluttering in the wind.)

Yut-Lung gathers all the pieces of himself up and pulls away, rising abruptly from the bed. It's not the hardest thing he's ever had to do, crossing the room to the door and not looking back, even as he feels Blanca's eyes on him with every step he takes.

It doesn't matter anymore, and so he says, allowing his voice to fill with whatever emotion it wants to, past caring: "Why don't you want me?"

The room's silent for so long that he doesn't think Blanca is going to answer after all. He's halfway out the door by the time Blanca speaks.

"Sometimes, when you see a beautiful thing, you can't bring yourself to touch it." Blanca's voice, like his gaze, is a gentle caress. "You don't want to break it. Like everyone else has."

There's a strange feeling in Yut-Lung's chest, a sharp flare of pain and light and something expanding, pushing all the air out so that he can't breathe.

"Go to sleep," Blanca says softly, and Yut-Lung goes.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to cry over Banana Fish together, I'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/expositionist/) and [tumblr](http://aoftheis.tumblr.com).


End file.
